Home For Christmas
by Poison Ivory
Summary: Arnold sets off to find Santa, and Gerald makes his first appearance!
1. Fratless Frat Boys and Unibrowed Memorie...

Author's Note: I was bored, wanting to write a Christmas story (even though I'm Jewish) and this lunacy came to me.  It will probably make no sense…I'm just hoping that I'll get it out before Christmas.  Don't worry, I'm working on everything else too!

Summary (in full): Nine years ago, Arnold's parents were found, and the happy family moved to Virginia.  Now he's a sophomore at Delaware University.  He hasn't seen the gang in years, so he doesn't know that Helga has become a frigid, chain-smoking bitch, Gerald, a self-centered jerk, and Phoebe a mousy intellectual snob.  But all that changes when an elf shows up in his kitchen, looking for a ham.  Santa Claus has been kidnapped, and only the gang can save him.  Very random weirdness ensues, along with—of course!—romance…

Disclaimer: Hey Arnold! is not mine, you silly billies.

Home For Christmas 

            "Dashing through the snow…in a one-horse open sleigh…o'er the hills we go…"

            Arnold continued to hum tunelessly as he opened the suite door.  He glanced around the small room, which was furnished mostly in various shades of gray and pizza stains.  He supposed that for girls, sharing a common room and kitchenette with three other people was a pleasure and a convenience, but when it came to guys…he really would have preferred a single.  It beat smelling the remains of other guys' beery vomit day after day.

            "Arnold, that you?" a voice called.

            "Yeah," he called back, checking the fridge to see if there was anything edible in it.  There wasn't, naturally.

            His suitemate Brad came out of his room, hefting a couple of suitcases.  "I'm out of here," he informed Arnold.

            "Cool.  Have a great vacation, man," Arnold replied.

            Brad lifted his eyebrows suggestively.  "Oh, I plan to.  How 'bout you?  What're you doing?"  He grinned.  "Going up north to see your unibrowed girlfriend?"

            Arnold's tone was dry and sarcastic.  "Hardy har har.  Funny.  This from the guy who sleeps with any woman he comes across—no matter _how_ old she is."

            Brad jabbed a finger into Arnold's chest.  "Hey!  She _told_ me she was twenty-three!"

            Arnold smirked.  "And I'm sure _every_ twenty-three-year-old you know has gray hair and dentures."  He paused.  "And Helga's not my girlfriend.  I haven't even seen her in nine years."

            "Be thankful for that," Brad replied, grinning again.  "Although you know what they say about ugly ducklings…"

            "They turn into ugly ducks," Arnold finished.  "I'll be at my folks' over the break…give me a call if you're bored."

            "Will do, man.  Merry Christmas."

            "Merry Christmas."

            As the door closed behind Brad's retreating back, Arnold let out a sigh of relief.  He liked his suitemates well enough, but after being raised first in that huge room in his grandparents' boarding house, and then as an only child with his parents, he sometimes got a little claustrophobic, surrounded by three large, hard-drinking, hard-partying guys.  He'd have the suite to himself for the next twenty-four hours before he left to go back home to Virginia.

            He walked into his tiny private bedroom, throwing the books he'd been carrying onto his unmade bed.  Glancing up, his eye caught the picture hanging over his bed, the picture his suitemates endlessly teased him about.

            When his parents had been found at the start of fifth grade, after being lost in the jungle for nine years, Arnold was, of course, thrilled.  The only thing marring the perfection of their triumphant return was the fact that they had to move.  After all their research and time lost in the jungle, the government had some very high-level positions for both of them, and so they moved near the capitol.  To Virginia, actually, a nice suburb where all of his mom's family lived (except for his weird cousin Arnie, but we won't go into that).  They'd offered to let Arnold stay with his grandparents and finish school up north, but he wasn't crazy.  He wanted to be with his parents.

            So he'd moved.  But before he'd gone, his friends had thrown him a big surprise party at the boarding house.  Everyone he knew was there, even the famous singer Dino Spumoni (who gave Arnold, as a present, a complete collection of his works).  There'd been laughter, tears…it had been a wonderful party.

            The picture hung on the wall was a blown-up version of one taken at the party.  All of his classmates and the boarders he had come to love like family had gathered around the couch.  Arnold was dead center, grinning from ear to ear like the tremendous dork he had been in elementary school.  On his right sat Gerald, his best friend from high school, also smiling, though his eyes were bright with tears.

            On his left was Helga.

            She'd come to the party with the same sullen expression on her face she wore all the time.  He'd expected her to not show, or to say something like, "So, Football Head, you're moving away?  Good riddance to bad rubbish, bucko!"  But she'd been eerily silent the entire party, not eating, not insulting anyone or getting into fights.

            She'd been sitting alone on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the floor, when someone—Grandpa, if memory served—had suggested taking a picture of everyone.  Arnold had jumped over the couch, plunking down right next to Helga, who'd given him a startled glance but hadn't moved.  Just before the flash went off, Arnold impulsively wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

            It was no wonder his suitemates made fun of her, he thought, studying her face in the picture.  She wasn't exactly a great beauty.  She wasn't a beauty at all.  The best she could hope for was homely.  Her pale blonde hair stuck out in thick pigtails on either side of her head, crowned with a ridiculous pink bow that for some reason had always made him smile.  She wore a matching pink dress and white sneakers, and she was skinny as a twig and pale as a ghost.  A startlingly dark, thick eyebrow ran across her forehead, giving her permanent scowl a frightening intensity.  Her upper lip sneered disgustedly, and her ears stuck out at odd angles.

            And yet there was something about her…

            Later, when Arnold had been seeing all the guests to the door, trying to hold back the tears, she'd been one of the last to leave.  She scowled as she pushed past him, heading down the stoop, but he'd called after her.

            "Helga!"

            She stopped and turned, clearly waiting for him to say something.  He shrugged, at a loss for words.

            "Helga, I…"  After all this time, he wished she'd offer him some sign that she thought of him as more than just dirt beneath her feet.  "I…well, I'll…I'll miss you, Helga."

            For the first time that day, she spoke.  "Arnold…"  Suddenly her lower lip trembled uncontrollably.  Without warning, she ran up the stairs and wrapped her arms around his neck.  He felt something hot and wet on his skin.  Was she…was she crying?

"You stupid Football Head!" she raged in his ear.  Then, before he could say anything, she was gone, racing away down the sidewalk.

There was a crumpled piece of paper in his hand.  He looked at it in surprise—how had it gotten there?  Unfolding it, he discovered a poem.  He read it, eyes widening in surprise.

_Football Head-_

_I know through the years I've treated you rotten_

_I've called you a new name every day_

_But it's just because my mouth filled with cotton_

_And what I really wanted to say_

_You always were wise, you always were kind_

_You always did just what was right_

_When everyone else went right out of their mind_

_Your words were our guiding light_

_And though I insulted you, shoved you around_

_Although all I did was berate you_

_Hard as I tried, very deep down_

_Arnold, I never could hate you_

_You've taught me a lot, about who I should be_

_And I know I'll never forget you_

_So good luck in life, to Hair Boy from me_

Arnold, I'm glad that I met you 

            There was no signature, but he didn't need one.  Only one person called him those names, acted like that around him.  Only one person knew just what to say to make him feel like laughing and crying at the same time.

            He'd never showed the poem to his suitemates.  That they would _never_ understand.

            Not that it mattered.  He'd never seen Helga again, never even heard from her.  He'd emailed her, along with the rest of the gang, but she'd never responded.  Well, at least she was honest.  Most people kept up a frail, lingering correspondence about nothing for several years.  Finally, even Gerald stopped writing.

            Not that _that_ mattered, either.  He had new friends, in Virginia, at college.  He didn't need to spend the rest of his life worrying about people he'd known when he was nine.  No, he'd moved on with his life, and he knew they had, too.

            His stomach suddenly gave a loud rumble.  Was there any food in the fridge?  He knew he'd checked—he just couldn't remember the results of his search.  He ambled out of his room, heading for the kitchen.

            When he reached it, he realized that the fridge was already open.  _That's funny_, he thought, walking towards it.  _I always close it_.  As he reached the fridge, he was able to see over the open door.

            That's when his heart started pounding in his ears and his palms started sweating.  That's when the world he thought he knew came screeching to a sudden halt around him, and he knew nothing would ever be the same.

            There was an elf standing in his kitchen.

            And it looked hungry.

What do you think?  Is it stupid?  Should I finish?  Do you want to know why the elf is there?  Isn't Brad a hottie?  Lol…he's a displaced frat boy, which is always fun.  Review, please!  -P.I.


	2. Herman, DimBulb, and Alleged Angels

Author's Note: Oh, this story is so very much fun to write!  Lol…yeah, so, here's another chapter!  Thanks for the reviews!

Disclaimer: You know this.  It's not mine.  And I'm not sayin' this anymore in this story.  So there.

2. Herman, Dim-Bulb, and Alleged Angels

            You may ask how Arnold knew that the creature standing in his kitchen was an elf.

            It wasn't because the creature was small, although it was.  Not short, like a midget, but perfectly in proportion, like a half-sized human—he came up to about Arnold's waist.  And it wasn't because of the ears, which were pointy and twice as large as they should be.  And it wasn't because of the red and green outfit, or the peaked cap, or even the long pointed curling-over shoes with bells on the toes, although that was a dead giveaway.

            No, it was because the creature was wearing a nametag that said in bold letters, "Herman Elf."  Arnold was never one to jump to conclusions, you see.

            The elf turned towards Arnold, and now our hero could see that the elf was smoking a cigar, wearing a surly expression on its scrunched-up face, and looking not unlike the late Walter Matthau.

            "What kind of refrigerator is this?" he demanded, his voice surprisingly gruff for one so tiny.  "Where's the food?"

            "Uh…we don't have any," Arnold explained, rather obviously.  "We, uh…well, we didn't buy food because it's almost Christmas—" the elf's expression indicated that _hello_, he knew that, he _was_ an elf  "—and none of us are going to be here."

            The elf glared back into the fridge.  "You don't even have a ham.  I could really use a ham."  He looked up at Arnold.  "You got one in your room?"

            "Uh, no."  Arnold swallowed.  "Excuse me, but, um…is there something I can help you with?"  He paused, swallowed again.  "Why are you here?"

            At _this_ point you may ask why Arnold wasn't freaking out about an elf being in his kitchen.  He certainly was too old to believe in Santa Claus.  The reason is simple—Arnold was a practical person.  There was an elf in his kitchen.  It couldn't be anything else—it was simply an elf.  Therefore, elves had to exist.  It was very straightforward.

            Arnold accepted the elf very easily.  Don't worry, though—several characters will be freaking out quite amusingly before this story is done.

            Also, Arnold had pinched himself quite hard while waiting for me to finish telling you this, and determined that he was not dreaming.

            "Can we get back to the story?" Arnold demanded.

            Oh, sorry.

            The elf pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket.  He saw Arnold's alarmed expression and grinned.  It was a grotesque expression, with the cigar and all.

"Don't worry, this isn't the Naughty list," he assured Arnold.  "Hah!  You've been on the Nice list your whole life.  Boring, if you ask me."

Arnold sniffed indignantly.

"Anyway, just to make sure…"  The elf glanced at the paper.  "You're Arnold, right?"

"Which one?" Arnold asked.  "I'm not the only Arnold in the world."

The elf glanced at the list again and shrugged.  "Dunno, he didn't put a last name."

"He?"

The elf gave him a withering look, going so far as to take the cigar out of his mouth to indicate just how incredibly stupid he thought Arnold was.  "Santa."

"Oh."  It seemed Santa was real, too.  "Well, I'm Arnold."

"Pleased to meet you.  I'm Herman."  The cigar was back in his mouth.

"Nineteen years old?  Sophomore?"

"Yes, and yes."

"Grew up in Hillwood, Brooklyn?  In the Sunset Arms boarding house?"

"Yes."

"With a one Mr. Hyunh."

"Best friend one Gerald Johansen?"

"Yes, but I haven't spoken to him in—"

"Do I care?  No.  Shut up."  Herman looked up at him, fixing him with a piercing glare.  "Now listen carefully, kid, and think about this answer, because this is very important.  On December 25th, 1996, were you, or were you not, the receiver of a Christmas Miracle from an alleged Christmas Angel?"

Arnold paused.  They had _known_ about that?  He'd been searching for Mr. Hyunh's lost daughter Mai, and he'd struck a deal with Mr. Bailey, at the Bureau of Missing Persons—do Bailey's Christmas shopping, and Bailey'd find Mai for him.  He'd dragged Gerald all over town, getting every item on the list…except a pair of Nancy Spumoni snow boots, which had been sold out for weeks.

And yet on Christmas morning, Mai Hyunh had magically appeared on their doorstep.  Well, I mean, she didn't _magically_ appear—I mean, she took a cab and walked up the stoop and everything, but…why had Mr. Bailey found her?  Arnold had tried going to the Bureau after the holidays and thanking him, but Mr. Bailey had insisted that he'd had help, although he refused to reveal from whom.  He said he was sworn to secrecy.

"_Hello_.  North Pole to Dim Bulb here.  Wakey wakey."  Herman was impatiently awaiting the end of Arnold's flashback scene.  "Did you get a CM or not?"

"CM?"

"_Christmas Miracle_, Dim Bulb."

"Oh!  Uh, yes.  Yes, I did."  He paused.  "How did you know about it?"

Herman checked the paper in his hand.  "Wasn't a registered Christmas Angel.  We had to make an investigation.  Decided to let it lie.  Everything worked out for the best.  Your "Angel" even got an extra pair of boots, to cover up any loose ends."

"Who was the Angel?" Arnold asked, extraordinarily curious.

Herman folded the paper.  "Sorry.  Classified."

Arnold let it slide.  "Why does it matter?" he asked, confused.  "It was ten years ago."

Herman sighed and walked into the main part of the common room, his shoes jingling merrily.  He sat down on the couch, winced, pulled a three-week-old piece of pizza out from under him, dropped it on the floor, and settled back.  He chewed his cigar thoughtfully—he didn't seem to want to light it.

Arnold sat down in a chair across from him, waiting for the elf's response.  He seemed to be working up to it.  He chewed his cigar, removed it from his mouth, inspected it, chewed it again.  Arnold couldn't help noticing, with some amusement, that the hooks on Herman's vest were miniature candy canes.

Herman seemed to be ready to talk.  His face got very serious, and even more scrunched up.  Arnold could barely see his eyes.

"They sent me to you because things are getting bad," he said finally, his voice low.  "We've put the Easter Bunny in charge, and he's holding down the fort well enough, but he's not really good at delivering anything but eggs.  We tried the Tooth Fairy for a while, but he was no help.  The toys are still in production, the reindeer are still training, but…"

Arnold stared at him, baffled.  Herman sighed, and went into a long stream of hacking coughs.  When he finished, he continued as if nothing had happened.

"We picked you because—well, three reasons.  Christmas Miracles are even rarer than you'd think right now, and since this is the tenth anniversary of yours…you might have some good luck again.  Also, you're technically an adult, but still young enough to be able to believe.  And third…well, the Tooth Fairy just kind of liked your looks.  He said he'd leave you more than money if you lost a tooth now."

Arnold shuddered, then quickly put _that_ thought out of his mind.  "But what do you need me for?  What am I supposed to do?"

"Oh, it's not just you," Herman replied.  "There's others.  But you're in charge.  And we need you because we're desperate.  We need him back.  And if we don't get him back…we need someone who can do the job, a few nights from now."

"Who?  What job?"  But Arnold already knew.

Herman paused.  When he looked up, his squinty eyes were bright with unshed tears.  He cleared his throat.

"Santa's gone."

Dum-dum-DUM!  Where is Santa?  Who kidnapped him?

a) the Mafia (oh, they're behind everything)

b) the government (they're behind everything the Mafia's not behind)

c) Brainy (sadistic, _very_ complicated plan to win Helga's love, once and for all!  Mwah-ha-ha!  Evil laughter ensues…)

d) Pirates (I just like 'em.)

Guess right and you get…the satisfaction of knowing you guessed right!  Yippee skippees!  Yeah, I'm hyper.  Anyway…do you like?  Do you hate?  Do you think the Tooth Fairy thing was crude?  (It'll get even _more_ crude when Arnold meets the guy!)  Do you like Herman?  I do.  Do you miss Walter Matthau?  Let me know!

I'm PI, and I am outie… 


	3. Arnold Learns of His Mission, and Begins...

3. Arnold Learns of His Mission, and Begins to Catch On to All the Abbreviations

_"Santa's gone."_

Let's take a moment, shall we, to register the impact of these two little words on our young hero.

It was big.

Think about it.  This is a boy, who, for approximately the first decade of his life, believed wholeheartedly in Santa Claus, in elves and reindeer and the North Pole and the whole nine yards.  Even when Arnold had grown to the age where he no longer believed in the actuality of Santa Claus, he still had a lot of faith in the _spirit_ of Santa Claus.  Now that an elf had appeared in his kitchen, clearly the whole Santa myth was no myth at all, but fact.  Which meant that Santa was real.  And gone.

The gift that had been returned to Arnold was suddenly snatched away again.

He was, among other things, incredulous.

"What?" he asked eloquently, summing up all of his fear, confusion, and sorrow in a monosyllable.

Herman didn't even roll his eyes.  Clearly, he was extremely upset.  "Santa's gone," he repeated.  "Saint Nick.  The big guy.  He disappeared."

"B-b-but…"  Arnold was sputtering now, like a dying candle.  "But he's…he's _Santa_!  He can't…he can't just be _gone_!"

Herman shrugged.  "That's what we thought.  But he is."

"Well, what happened?"

Herman sighed.  "He was doing last-minute checks on the List—you know, final switches from Nice to Naughty, reevaluation of borderline cases—and he likes it to be totally quiet when he works on the List.  So he'd holed himself up in his office all day, going through entire gallons of eggnog—which is always how he gets around this time of year.  'Bout five o' clock, we hear this huge crash coming from his office.

"Well, we all rush in to see what's wrong.  Everything's fine—List intact, papers all neatly in order—but Santa's chair was knocked over, and the rug was all hitched up—and Santa was gone.

"We searched everywhere—the reindeer stables, the workshop, the entire North Pole—but we couldn't find him anywhere.  So we followed Code Blue."

"What's Code Blue?" Arnold asked.

"Simple, really," Herman replied, gnawing on his cigar.  "Put Otto the Head Elf in charge and go about business as usual for twenty-four hours."

"And…?" Arnold pressed.

"And he didn't show up," Herman replied.  "So we had to go to Code Red."

"Which is…?"

"Call in EB—Easter Bunny to you, Dimbulb—and have Security conduct an investigation.  We came up with nothing.  So after five days of searching, we had to activate Code Mauve."

Arnold raised an eyebrow.  "Code Mauve?"

"Santa always keeps the name of an EMR.—Emergency Miracle Recipient—or two in the security office in case of something like this happening.  EMR's are generally more willing to give a hand to the Pole if we need it, and they've got just that tiny bit more of CS—Christmas Spirit—that helps.  So they send out the Head of Security—that'd be yours truly—to find the chosen EMR.  Of course, we haven't used an EMR in over two decades, but I guess we were about due.  And we sure do need Santa back.  So will you help us, kid?"

Here Herman paused, removed the cigar from his mouth, and looked up at Arnold with questioning eyes that Arnold could almost see under the heavy brows.

"What?" Arnold cried, startled.

"Will.  You.  Help.  Us?" Herman repeated.  "Kid?"

Arnold was dumbfounded.  "But…I mean, what could _I_ do on my own?  I'm just a kid in college…"

Herman shrugged.  "Look, between you and me, I don't really know what good you'll go.  But the Big Guy singled you out, so you've gotta be good for _something_."  Arnold tried hard not to feel insulted.  "And besides, you won't be alone.  We're picking up a few more of your pals along the way."

Arnold didn't think he'd ever had a more confusing conversation.  "My pals?"

Herman cleared his throat and reached into his pocket again.  "Er…well, for starters, a Mr. Gerald Johanssen…"

"_Gerald_?"

"That's what I said, Dimbulb.  Gerald Johanssen There's more, but we'll start with him."

"But why Gerald?" Arnold asked.  "I mean, I haven't even spoken to him in…in years."

Herman looked over his list.  "Wasn't he the one who suggested that you were being "looked out for" by a CA?"

"Christmas Angel?" Arnold inquired archly before Herman could clarify.

"You're learning, kid," Herman said approvingly.  "Well, wasn't he?"

Arnold nodded.  "Yeah, and he helped me do all the shopping for Mr. Bailey, too.  He really stuck by me that day."  His tone became just the tiniest bit wistful, as he wondered, not for the first time, just what had happened to probably the best friend he'd ever had.

"So can I count you in?" Herman asked.

Arnold didn't take long to consider.  After all, what kind of a person was he if he didn't help find Santa Claus, of all people?  He grinned.

"I'm in."

"Great!" said Herman, breaking into a truly horrifying smile.  "Here ya go."  He handed something over to Arnold.

"What's this?" Arnold asked, glancing down at the paper in his hand.

"Bus ticket to New York," Herman replied.  "You leave in half an hour."

"But…I thought…don't we use some…I dunno, reindeer or pixie dust or something?  I mean…the _bus_?"

Herman pointed his cigar at Arnold.  "Hey, what do I look like to you, a Fairy Godmother?  It's a nice bus!"

Arnold backed off.  "Alright, alright, I'm just asking…"

Herman stuck his cigar back in his mouth.  "Okay, that's that.  I'm off to the Pole to see if they've come up with anything new.  I'll meet you at Slaussen's in Brooklyn at four tomorrow afternoon.  You can sleep on the bus.  Here's a travel kit."  He handed Arnold something about the size of a lunchbox.

"Well, I'll need to pack…"

"No, you won't.  That's got all you need.  Trust me.  See you tomorrow."

And before Arnold could say another word, Herman was gone.  Just like that.  Disappeared.

Arnold looked at the ticket in his hand and shrugged, reaching for his jacket.  "Well, I guess I'm off to the Bus Depot," he said to no one in particular.  Before he left, though, he picked up the phone on the kitchen counter and quickly dialed his home number.  The phone rang several times before the machine picked up.

"Uh…Mom?  Dad?  It's me…uh…see, I have to…I have to go back to Brooklyn for a while.  Something's just come up, and someone's in trouble.  You wouldn't believe me if I told you, but I really do have to help this person.  I'll explain it all to you when you get back.  I'll check in with Grandma and Grandpa so that they can confirm that I'm okay, and I'm not on drugs or anything…I love you, and hopefully I'll be home for Christmas.  Bye!"

And Arnold picked up his travel kit and ticket, and walked out of the dorm, heading for the bus.

From the files of Saint Nicholas: Arnold (last name smudged), age 7

_December 12, 1994_

_Dear Santa,_

_            This year for Christmas I don't want toys or books or games or anything.  I just want my mom and dad back.  I know it's a realy big Christmas wish, but I've tryed to be extra specialy good this year and I hope that maybe you could sort of find them in the jungel and bring them to the bording house for me.  I think there probly getting tired of the jungel by now and maybe want to come back home, so if you culd please bring them that wuld be a realy good Christmas present.  If you can't I understan cause you mite not be abel to find them if no one else can but culd you please try?  I don't want anything else.  Thank you, and I hope you have a very good Christmas to._

_                                                                                                Your freind,_

_                                                                                                            Arnold_

_P.S. Culd you please if you get the time tell me what kind of cookys are you're faverite so I can put out the kind that you like the best?  And do you want skim milk or hole?  We have both because Mrs. Cocashca's on a diet and Granma thinks aliems make skim milk._

Author's Note: Sorry it took so long to get this out!  But I'm making it up to you…TWO chapters at once!  (Yippee!)  Anyway, there probably won't be much of Always or TQT for a while, because I want to finish this one before Christmas (although who knows if that'll happen…the way my muse works, I may have TQT finished tomorrow and this one done in time for _next_ Christmas…).  You can mosey on over to the (gasp!) R-rated stories to read my latest contribution, Crazy For You (honestly, this "we're not going to automatically display R-rated stories so there" is the most annoying thing in the universe, so I must plug unabashedly.  PLUG!).

Snow Lane: I'm trying to get it out before Christmas, I really am, but who knows?  We'll see…hey, Cosmic Dreamer started "A Christmas Present for Arnold" like, three years ago, and it's still worth reading… (CD, if you're reading this, FINISH IT!)

January Marlinquin: Cool name!  Oh, we'll be meeting the Bunnymeister and the Tooth Fairy (yes, he's a he) at some point.  And the madness that I have done/will do with traditional holidays is just…it's crazy.  You'll see.  Yeah, those poor kids…well, hopefully Arnold will save the day!  And you'll just have to wait and see what happened to Santa…

Geko: I've actually never seen Nightmare Before Christmas, and I really want to…

arnoldnhelga4eva: Your mom really took care of Walter Matthau?  That's…wow.  Does she work at some kind of…I dunno, a celebrity hospital or something?  That's so sad, though…he seems like he'd be nice…

Wyltk: Walter Matthau was a very great comedian who died a few years ago…He played Oscar in the Odd Couple movies, and he was in some really great stuff…Hello Dolly, and Plaza Suite, and A Guide for the Married Man, and about a million other things.

I'm glad everyone loves Herman…I love him too!  He's so fun!  And the answer to the question…HA!  I'm not gonna tell yet!  Nyah!  (Although we seem to have an overwhelming love of pirates here, which is always good…I love 'em too.  Even though I love cowboys more.)  I'm out for now…-PI


	4. Gerald's Appearance and Arnold's Doofy S...

4. Gerald's Appearance, and Arnold's Doofy Sweaters

Gerald Johanssen rubbed his mittened hands together briskly and turned up the collar of his coat as he walked down Vine Street as quickly as his long legs could carry him.  Though not a flake of snow had graced the sidewalks of the city yet, it was bitterly cold, the mercury having hovered somewhere around zero for the past month.

Still, Gerald was fairly happy.  He'd gotten home from University of Miami the day before, and though his body protested angrily at the sudden cold, it was good to be back in Brooklyn.  He'd been able to sleep as late as he wanted today, instead of having to get up at the frighteningly early hour of eleven that was his normal schedule.  After a late lunch his mother had begrudgingly prepared for him, he'd shuffled around the house in his boxers for about an hour, teasing Timberly about her boyfriend and trying to pretend that he wasn't bored already.

Finally, though, his mother had lost her patience and thrown him out of the house, on the pretense that she needed milk.  So, he'd pulled on some clothing and headed down towards the deli, looking fondly around the old neighborhood as he'd passed the landmarks of his childhood.

There were one or two things, however, that he did _not _like to see anymore, and he was passing one of them now, here on Vine Street.  The old russet boarding house stood somber and quiet, its bricks edged with the frost that refused to turn to snow.  It was the home of his childhood best friend, the boy he'd lived through countless adventures with—the boy who'd ditched him years ago.

Oh, sure, it wasn't entirely Arnold's fault.  After all, Gerald could have kept up his end of the emails and the phone calls just as easily as Arnold.  Still, he'd felt hurt—abandoned—when his friendship with Arnold had basically staggered off into the sunset on its last legs.  He couldn't help feeling like the Arnold he'd grown up with would have done more to keep the friendship alive.

_Oh, well._  He turned off Vine Street and headed for his own.  He'd made his own friends in high school and college, and he was sure that Arnold had done the same.  No use crying over spilled milk, right?  Who said that old friends were the only friends?  It was like that song said.  _One is silver and the other gold…_ or something like that.

Anyway, he'd hung on to some of his old friends.  He was meeting up with Stinky, Harold, and the others that very night to play a few rounds of pool, which Gerald modestly assumed he would tromp them in.  After all, he wasn't known as the MVP on Miami's baseball team for nothing.  True, the skills required for pool weren't exactly the same as those required for baseball, but they had to come in handy somehow, right?  And he'd always been the most athletic of them all.  Well, he'd heard Harold was on a full football scholarship at Rutgers, which was nothing to sneeze at, because Harold couldn't even get _near_ Rutgers without football, but still…

He'd been thinking about quitting the team, though.  It wasn't like he had any great passion for the game, after all.  Sure, he liked doing physical things, he liked being active—and maybe if he worked a little harder he could go pro, but he wasn't sure he wanted to.  It was only baseball, after all.  It didn't exactly strike a chord in him anywhere—wasn't like he loved the game more than life itself.

Well, he didn't need to decide right now.  He'd play a few games with the guys, have a beer or two—Harold was of age, so they didn't even have to bother with fake ID's, which was good, because his was ridiculously bad—maybe pick up a girl…

Speaking of girls…

As Gerald reached the top of his stoop and put his key in the lock, something made him turn around.  A curtain flickered in the window of the Hyerdahl house, a window he'd once studied for hours; something dark moved away from the glass.  He paused, ignoring the cold as he stared up at the window.  For a minute, he thought he'd seen his old girlfriend…

He and Phoebe had always shared a weird kind of chemistry.  As early as elementary school they were giving each other shy glances and occasionally—gasp!—holding hands.  He'd finally worked up the nerve to ask her out in seventh grade, and they'd dated for about a year and a half, until for a complicated mess of reasons he couldn't really remember right now, they'd broken up.  They'd stayed friends, though, and she'd helped to fill the void as correspondence with Arnold got smaller and smaller.  He'd told Phoebe things he'd never imagined telling _anyone_, let alone a girl, and there were times when he thought he'd never love anyone as much as he loved Phoebe—as a friend, of course.

But they went to different high schools, and though they lived across the street from each other, they stopped hanging out quite as much.  Gerald was busy with the debate team, the baseball team, the basketball team, football…you get the picture.  Phoebe was off with the Science Club and the Math Team and the Future Leaders of America and pretentious Mensa-wannabe things like that, and they'd just gradually drifted apart.  By graduation, they were barely speaking, except for a "hi" and "bye" in the street when they passed.

And then, the summer before college, there was that night…that awful night…Gerald _really_ didn't want to think about it right now.  Suffice to say they'd…done things they shouldn't, and said things they shouldn't, and hadn't spoken since.  That had been a year and a half ago.

He wondered idly if she still wore her hair the way he liked it, and then tried to forget just how _much_ he'd liked it the way he'd liked it.

And he went inside his house.

Arnold stood on Gerald's stoop, fidgeting uncomfortably as he tried to gather up the nerve to knock.  He thought he might have felt a little bit better if he hadn't been wearing such an awful sweater.

The trip up north had been basically uneventful.  To Arnold's very great surprise, the travel kit _had_ contained pretty much everything he needed.  Toothbrush, washcloth, comb, towel, several complete meals, enough coffee to keep him wired for a year, wrapping paper, candy canes, and, for some obscure reason, a collapsible lawn chair and a croquet set.  It also had clean underwear, socks, and sweaters, plus gloves and a scarf, which came in pretty handy as the bus moved farther north.  And all of the paraphernalia fit easily into the tiny kit, defying pretty much every law of physics Arnold knew.  The only problem was (besides the fact that Arnold didn't even want to _think_ about how they knew his size), all of the clothing was (unsurprisingly) Christmasy.  Meaning that he was now wearing a sweater with all eight reindeer loving knit onto the red and green stripes.  And boxers with Christmas trees (although no one could see those).  And a scarf and hat with snowflakes on them.  And a pom-pom on the hat.

The author would like to express at this moment that Arnold looked like a complete and total doof.

"Thank you."

No sweat, Football Face.

What would Gerald say to him when he answered the door?  Would he be glad to see him?  Would he be angry that they hadn't really spoken in so long?  And how in the name of Christmas was he going to explain why he was here?

Maybe it would be better to get him to Slaussen's first, and then break the whole Santa thing to him.  It might go down easier with Herman there as proof.

Yes, that was the plan.  He nerved himself, and rang the doorbell.

"Gerald, could you get that?"

"Aw, Ma, why can't Timberly get it?"

"Because Timberly is helping me, which you have not done since you got home!  Now answer the door!"

"_Awwww…_"

There was the sound of approaching footsteps, then the bolts shifted and the door opened.  Gerald stood there, pretty much the way Arnold remembered him, except far taller and with much less hair.  A rough goatee adorned his chin, making him look far older than Arnold.  When he saw who was standing on the stoop, his jaw dropped.

"_Arnold_?"

Arnold shrugged a little and nodded sheepishly.  "Yep, it's me."

Gerald's eyes were still as big as dinner plates.  "What the hell are you doing here?"

Okay, this wasn't exactly a warm welcome.  Still, Gerald wasn't being outright hostile.  "Well, it's kind of a long story.  Um…something sort of…er…came up.  Could we…er…could we talk?"

Gerald nodded.  "Uh…sure.  Yeah, we can talk.  Why don't you come in?"

Arnold felt even more embarrassed.  "Um…actually, could we go to Slaussen's?  I'm…we're…sort of supposed to meet someone there.  It's not that I don't want to see your family again or anything, but…"  He glanced at his watch.  "We're supposed to meet him at four, and it's three forty-nine already…"

"_We_?" Gerald asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, well…it's a long story…" Arnold repeated, not knowing what else to say.

Gerald sighed, apparently figuring he might as well go along with it.  "Okay, I'll get my coat.  Hold on."  He vanished into the house.

Arnold felt slightly relieved.  At least Gerald was coming.  Still, the hard part was coming up.  And he knew why Gerald hadn't really invited him in while he got his coat.  It was a small, but subtle reminder—they were no longer friends.

They'd have to patch that up if they were to find Santa together.  Ten years ago, Arnold could have done it in his sleep.  Now he wasn't sure if he knew how.  He'd lost some of the magic touch he'd had with people as a child, and he didn't know if he could regain it.

Gerald came to the door, shrugging into his coat.  "'Kay, my mom wants me back in a couple of hours.  We're having my cousins over for dinner, and they eat a _ton_."

"Did I meet these cousins?" Arnold asked as they started down the stoop.

"Yeah, remember that one Thanksgiving you spent with us?" Gerald asked.

"Oh, yeah…"  As they headed down the street Arnold glanced up at Phoebe's house.  "Have you seen Phoebe recently?" he asked, nodding towards her window.

"No."  Gerald's answer was so curt and closed-mouthed that Arnold was sure he had said the wrong thing.  Fidgeting uncomfortably, he walked silently until Gerald turned to him, eyebrow raised.

"Arnold, I have to ask…what is up with that sweater?"

Arnold smiled sheepishly as some of his anxieties evaporated.  "It's part of my story.  Trust me, I didn't pick it out.  I'll explain it all at Slaussen's.  How's Miami?"

Well, they weren't friends…but they weren't not-friends, either.  For now, that was enough.

From the files of Saint Nicholas: Gerald Johanssen, age 5

_Dear Santa,_

_            Jamie-O is helping me write this and telling me how to spell, but he says that you give younger kids more presents than big ones so he's making me write it.  We have been really really really good this year like angels and what we want most of all is a Nintendo.  Like the new kind with the game where you get to fight all the ninjas.  And I want a skateboard also and Jamie-O wants a car even though I told him he can't drive a car 'cause he's only ten and that's not so old.  And since we're going to have a baby brother or sister soon we would like a sister because we already have two boys in the family and that's plenty.  But a good sister, not a brat.  Thank you,_

_                                                                                                From,_

_                                                                                                Gerald (and Jamie-O)_


End file.
